Vergence (24 page)

One of the guard's floundering hands caught Orim on the face, and the other gripped his arm, but the bulk of the man's body shielded him from rodent-face, who scowled as he tried to find a gap for a clean thrust.

Twice rodent-face thrust, aiming at Orim's face, and then his thigh, as he struggled with the heavy man. Orim manoeuvred the guard with brute strength, and as his opponent lunged again, he shifted, dragging the guard into the path of the blade.

The guard gasped as the sword went through him just under the ribs. He staggered, then crumpled as Orim pushed him away.

Orim angled backwards, drawing a seax with each hand, narrowly avoiding the tip of his opponent's blade as it extended in a slicing thrust. It caught him, a slashing cut across his right cheek, like a stinging slap.

A red film descended over his vision, and a battle rage settled on him. He moved forward, driving rodent-face back around the side of the table, towards the rear room, where the scribe stood watching, open-mouthed, with parchment and quill still clutched in his hands.

Orim finished up with blades locked against the edge of the doorway, hips and shoulders pressed against his opponent. Breathing in short gasps, they strained for an advantage, Orim trying to lever his superior size and strength to open a gap.

He barely registered the short punch dagger in his opponent's off-hand, twisting outwards and away, reacting instinctively to an almost imperceptible shift in body position as rodent-face thrust at his groin. But one of his seax clattered away uselessly across the floor, and slid under the table.

Now his opponent pushed him back, step by step, blade flashing in an intricate pattern, all the time threatening with the punch dagger, staying out of reach, from where, they both knew, rodent-face's longer weapon would eventually win him the duel.

At the side of the table, Orim's foot slipped on the blood-slick surface and he crashed to the floor, landing hard on his hands and knees.

A wooden stool lay on its side in front of him, concealed under the table and, from the corner of his eyes, he saw rodent-face lunging at him.

Without pausing, Orim seized the foot of the stool and swung it as he threw himself sideways. Too late, rodent-face saw the movement and tried to leap clear — but the blow swept his legs out from under him, and he landed on his back with a crash.

In a heartbeat, Orim was on top of his opponent, pinning the punch dagger with a knee, and leaning his entire body into a bone crushing blow to the man's face.

He punched again, then seized the man's head and slammed it repeatedly into the floor, grunting with the force, until the impact produced a pulpy sound, and he knelt above a spreading dark red halo.

Orim recovered his seax from under the table, clambered to his feet, and looked around. He felt his own blood flowing down the side of his face and trickling along the inside of his right sleeve.

The scribe had disappeared into one of the back rooms. Behind Orim, the surviving guard dragged himself towards the door, head down, breathing laboured. Orim grabbed the last unbroken stool and, with two quick steps, brought it down on the back of the crawling man's head.

He listened carefully for sounds outside, but the only noise came from the distant gathering crowds.

The scribe cost a moment's work. Orim left the body in the back room, and made his way back to where Quentyn lay trapped. He bent and tipped the table over, grabbed Quentyn by the front of his robes, and pulled him free of the dead bodies and broken furniture.

“Hurt?” Orim asked.

Quentyn stared at him, wild-eyed. Orim could feel Quentyn shaking under the soiled, blood soaked robes, as he cut away the last of the rope bindings, prodding for injuries as he did so.

“Are you able to walk?”

“Puh—” Quentyn said, head bobbing, eyes flicking wildly around the room.

“Come then.”

Orim dragged Quentyn across the room, his seax blade held low and ready in his right hand, cursing the man for choosing to live so near to one of the spikes.

He pulled open the door to the sound of festival celebrations.

After the last of the parade had passed by, the crowd started to disperse. A great mass of people moved away from the circle road, a slow surging wave, dividing at the corners and spreading into the side streets. Groups of children darted like shoals of small fish, leaving behind glimmers of laughter, and impressions of quick feet.

Ebryn had expected to be returning to his room, but Sash seemed to be in no mood for the evening to end just yet. He realised she'd steered them down a broad lane leading at an angle away from the claws, towards the Westerwall.

A few yards along, she pulled him to one side, allowing the people behind them to flow past. He was just about to ask her why, when he spotted Addae wading through the jostling mass, with Elouphe padding along at his side. A short distance behind them he saw Teblin, surrounded by two dozen people, brightly dressed, walking with arms draped around one another’s shoulders, and singing at least three different songs between them.

“How did you know they'd be going this way?” Ebryn asked, impressed.

“Teblin visited Enla earlier this evening to talk business. He suggested meeting up at the Westerwall after the parade, to celebrate, if we didn't find each other before that, and this is the only path to get there, unless you want to tramp across half of Vergence first.”

Sash waved, and skipped out to intercept Teblin's party.

“Wonderful,” Teblin said loudly, steering his group in their direction. “Are you joining us for a round, or five in the Westerwall?”

“Perhaps a drink or two,” Sash said.

“So, what did you make of our parade?” Teblin asked, falling in beside Ebryn.

“Very long.”

Teblin laughed, a deep sound that made his whole body shake. “Just long? Did you hear that Leon?” Teblin said to a young man walking next to him.

Leon appeared to be a few years older than Ebryn. He had dark shoulder-length hair, with a neat moustache, and pointed beard.

“Well, it was a bit long-winded,” Leon said, “especially towards the end.”

“One of the greatest shows to be seen anywhere, and all you two can say is it was too long. Where is your sense of art, your spirit?”

Leon grinned, showing a row of perfect teeth. “Waiting for me in the tavern.”

Teblin snorted and turned back to Ebryn. “Have you never seen a parade before?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Ebryn felt himself colouring, hoping it wouldn't be noticed in the dark. More than anything, since he'd arrived in Vergence, the Tranquillity parade seemed almost designed to reinforce the insignificance of places like Conant village. And he guessed that might be the part of the reason for the spectacle — an effortless display of power and wealth, eclipsing the splendour any ruler of the Fyrenar kingdoms might hope to command.

He felt relieved when they turned into a street he recognised, the fountains outside the Westerwall visible at the far end. The sound of instruments and singing from the tavern reached them before they turned into the square, and the pace quickened, forcing Elouphe into a shambling run.

They found the tavern already crowded, when they arrived, with revellers spilling out into the surrounding square as far as the fountain. At the far end of the main room a long table had been shoved against each end of a large circular one, with an assortment of benches, stools and chairs. Easily enough for all of them and another dozen besides.

A large man in a leather apron stood, barring the way to the tables, steering grumbling drinkers away. He looked physically powerful, with a lumpy bald head, and matted dark hair on forearms as thick as a man's calf.

“I was about to let your tables go,” he said shortly, as they approached.

Teblin grinned. “Ah, you know it wouldn't be a celebration worth having without us.”

Leon noticed Addae raise an eyebrow. “Teblin brings a lot of custom through the doors. A fair few come here for the company of us players, and we gather where the play masters are, and you'll find them with the playwrights.”

The larger man grunted as he received a small, but weighty, bag from Teblin. It disappeared into a fold inside his apron so quickly that it left Ebryn wondering if he'd seen anything at all.

“Right then — best take your seats. I'll be sending your drinks over.”

Their party, which seemed to double in size as they crossed the room, crowded into the narrow spaces around the tables, taking whichever seats were free.

Ebryn found himself sitting on the far side of the round table, facing into the room, with Leon immediately to his right, and Teblin a few spaces further along. Sash ended up almost opposite Teblin, surrounded by men.

Ebryn looked around to find Addae and Elouphe, and spotted them at the far end of the long table to his left. Not much chance of speaking to either of them this evening.

Solid tankards banged down onto the table, followed by drinking flasks and trays of food – bread, sections of fish and meat, cheeses, nuts, shelled hard boiled eggs, a dozen kinds of fruits, and bowls of things he didn't recognise.

The tankards emptied almost as fast as they appeared, and soon Ebryn could barely pick out the individual voice of his neighbours above the rising red-faced joviality.

The man on his left had a shiny bald crown, with a horseshoe shaped tangle of hair, like a grizzled bird's nest growing from the sides and rear of his head. He'd not offered his name, but filled Ebryn's beaker with more ale each time it emptied.

Ebryn remembered the tight-mouthed look Fidela reserved for Eloi and Dollard when they ventured indoors for meals, bringing with them the same sour smell. She'd refused to allow any kind of fermented drink into the house, other than a small selection of wine stocked for Lord Conant's rare visits, or for use as medicine. It was common knowledge that the older men on the estate visited the alehouse in Conant village, and kept small kegs stashed in a side room to the stables — safe from Fidela's prying.

As he moved onto his fourth drink, the noise on the room took on a different character, his head felt loosely attached to his body, and he imagined for a moment he was a single unmoving point in the swirl of the room, like a rock on the shoreline surrounded by roaring surf.

It took Ebryn a few moments to realise Teblin had spoken to him.

“He's had too much,” Leon said.

“Or not enough,” Teblin bellowed, pushing an overflowing tankard in his direction. “Forget the mug, my good fellow. Take this and get a proper drink down you.”

Ebryn felt something pass between Sash and Teblin. Even through the many ales he'd consumed he recognised a light glamour, not powerful, but enough to drag the playwright's attention away from the young players at the end of his table.

She leant forward, moving stray strands of hair from her face. “Can you explain the first part of the parade for me?”

“A magnificent show, was it not?” Teblin said, opening his arms expansively, and slopping foam onto the tabletop. “The lights are extinguished and, in the dark, we have runners with tails of sparks trailing behind them. This part marks the first great expansion of Volane, the exploration of uncharted worlds, and also it symbolises the spread of knowledge and civilization where none existed before.”

“He says to a Senesellan,” a voice behind Sash said.

Teblin dipped his head and chuckled. “Senesella being the exception, naturally. Now where was I … ah, yes, the expansion. This part of the parade passed too swiftly. Insufficient for my tastes — no mention of all the wonderful places they found. Instead, they pass directly to the accomplishments of Volane.”

“He only wants more grand tales to steal for his plays,” Leon said, speaking in a mock stage whisper, designed to carry the length of the table.

“My plan is discovered.”

“And more of the details, so he doesn't have to do any of the work himself.”

Ebryn placed both his hands over his tankard, and leant his chin on them, trying to keep the room from spinning. “The endless carts — what were they all about?”

“Ah, my good fellow, the terrible carts. I'll concede this one, as this part of the parade is overly long, and deathly dull. The carts were there to display relics from the time of Volane – great works of art, or representations of great achievements. Alas, as with many things, it now serves as a vehicle for the petty squabbles of the great, and the wealthy. Most of these relics are too small to see in a crowd, or too valuable to show, so as each year passes the decorations on the carts must compete with one another, too.”

“What sort of things?” Sash asked.

“The relics on display tonight were supposed to be singular things, at one time of great import in the old world,” Teblin said.

Leon made a dismissive sound. “Mostly an assortment of rubbish, dressed up to fool the impressionable. You might just as well take a brick from the wall of this tavern, or half the other buildings in the city, and call it a valuable relic of Volane.”

“Finally, at the end of the parade, we have the great people of this fair city,” Teblin said. “And bringing up the tail we have Duca Vittore on a platform, carried by his official guard of cheg warriors. And the significance of this part? To show who is most important. Then, at last, we get to the most important bit of the evening … good company and ale.”